Days, nor Decades
by wayward-river
Summary: He wonders where time has gone to, or if time was there to begin with. Sometimes, Ichigo forgets just how old Renji is. Post-WW.


Sometimes, Ichigo forgets Renji is decades old.

But now, as he stands beside the Shinigami and the graves laid out before them, the reminder is too clear and far too bitter. Ichigo looks into the distance, across the expanse of the lower squalls of Rukongai and to the Seireitei beyond, the sun's late evening rays shrouded in the clouds of twilight - unable to meet Renji's gaze.

He wonders where time has gone to, or if time was there to begin with; In truth, Ichigo stopped counting long ago. Time is a mere nuisance, another painful reminder that he is no more than a babe by their standards, and just as experienced. Looking at Renji now, time, he has discovered, does not always heal.

Renji's face is harsh in the shadows, and Ichigo dislikes the downturned curve of his mouth, the fading light in his eyes. His attire is informal and inconspicuous, the traditional, dark brown yukata clashing with his bright red hair. Finally, Ichigo speaks, voice roughed along the edges.

"You have awful fashion sense, Renji."

The other barks a laugh, raising his head and leering at him. "Stuff it, Kurosaki."

Ichigo smiles just slightly, a little smug, a little complacent, and stuffs his hands into his jean pockets. "Just sayin', you won't be attracting any good-looking girls in that get-up."

Renji returns a grin, albeit crooked, as if he'd forgotten to do so properly. He turns from the graves before them, brown eyes meeting that of his comrade's, a silent thanks, before clapping him roughly on the shoulder.

"C'mon, Kurosaki. Let's go get something to drink."

**

* * *

**

Renji was never one for fine sake.

And by the looks of it, neither is Ichigo. But such an occasion is too good to squander with cheap booze and forced laughter. The faces of his past friends are blurry now, gone back into the recesses of his memories, where they should be.

Ichigo peers down into his cup of rice wine, a look of despondency on his face; lips parted, brows down, brown eyes heavy-lidded. In Renji's opinion, he looks nothing like the boy who helped imprison Sosuke Aizen five years ago.

Five years. It is no more significant than a speck of dust on his Shinigami uniform.

Renji doesn't like the youth on Ichigo's face, so he slams the sake flask on the bar they sit at, its contents sloshing over and onto the wood.

Ichigo's head snaps up, a blur of orange and brown, before he levels an irate glace at the red-head before him.

Renji shrugs and takes another sip of the wine. "Quit daydreaming. It's rude of a guest to space out when in the company of his host."

"Tch," the younger man scowls and tips the cup back, "Shut up, Renji."

Renji doesn't mind the following silence. He looks out the office window into the darkness beyond, the Seireitei illuminated only by moonlight and stars. It's the sake which makes him melancholy, he decides; fine wine does that to him.

"Hey, Strawberry."

"What, Pineapple-head?"

Renji huffs a sigh, tattooed eyebrows coming down, one hand reaching up to scratch the ones on his collarbones. A nervous habit he hopes Ichigo doesn't see through.

"What do you think you'll be doing, in ten years?"

He watches as Zangetsu's wielder purses his lips, slouches in his chair.

"I really have no idea."

Renji hums thoughtfully. "Nothing? Not even an idea?"

Ichigo taps his foot, rests his chin on his open palm, elbow propped upon the bar. Renji can see the faint white scars along the other man's forearm, a testament to battles won and battles lost, many inflicted by Renji himself.

"Not like ten years is a whole lot of time to you Shinigami," Ichigo stretches and runs a hand through his unkempt hair, "But what will you be doing in ten years, huh?"

The Shinigami licks his lips, a self-satisfied grin curving his mouth.

"In ten years I'll have finally bested Captain Kuchiki, claimed a squad of my own, and be known as 'Seireitei's Most Handsome Man.' Yup. That's where I'll be in ten years. Then there's Rukia."

He coughs, color rising on his face, and Ichigo has a suspicion it has nothing to do with alcohol.

"Well. That's what I hope, anyhow."

Ichigo is silent.

Outside, insects fill the night with their calls, harbingers of early July.

"If I had to guess," the human says quietly, "I'd probably still be a substitute, kicking Hollow ass. Maybe helping the old man run Kurosaki Clinic. Maybe have a girl, too."

Renji knows he's thinking of Orihime, her bright smiles and joyful eyes.

(Or rather, he hopes).

The Lieutenant re-fills Ichigo's cup before doing the same for himself. He chuckles.

"As if you could ever get a girl, Strawberry. Not even in ten years."

Ichigo laughs.


End file.
